My life has changed dramatically since that time, both professionally and personally. Funnily enough, the one thing that hasn't changed in that time is the artwork I planned to show at the event, a detail of which you can see above. I'd never made a piece quite like it, and it took a whole lot longer to fashion than I could have imagined. About two years, as it turns out. Sorta kinda.

In 2016, I wrote the following about Kachofugetsu:

That natural world, it's wonders and beauties, and the epiphanies it visits upon us puny mortals are the concerns of KachoFugetsu. 花鳥風月 (Kachofugetsu) is a yoji-jukugo (四字熟語), a collection of four Chinese/Japanese kanji characters that make up a sort of minimalist idiom, saying, or poem. 花鳥風月 are, literally and in order: Flower, Bird, Wind, and Moon. Together, these four icons of the natural world can be found in an uncountable number of Japanese paintings, calligraphy, poems, pottery, and more.

What I failed to mention is that Kachofugetsu shouldn't be literally assumed to mean art of flowers wafting in the wind, while birds flutter under the glowing moon. Rather, these images evoke a tradition, a history, a lineage of the appreciation of nature and beauty reflected in art and passed down through generations.

Traditions are as much a trap as a gift.

Its an easy mistake to replicate what came before without adding our own essence into the mix. When we stand on the shoulders of titans, we need to accept the responsibility of moving those traditions forward, of evolving them.

This year, seven of us are trying our hands at interpreting these themes for our increasingly strange times.

Many are quite good. Some are truly dreadful. A handful are wonderfully powerful. Those in the last category are the ones that make me feel that picking up a pencil was a worthwhile choice that morning.

In the end, I chose this pose for two reasons.

First was the shape of the board. No, its not an exciting or emotional reason, but there it is. After this project, I really appreciate the struggles filmmakers and DPs (director of photography or cinematographer) go through to make our movies beautiful. I’ve always got the freedom to change the shape and layout of my art if I don’t like the framing or want to change the composition.

Second was Rey’s personality (in The Force Awakens… as of this writing, The Last Jedi hasn’t been released to throw any wrenches into my thought process), as well as the “personality” of the Force itself. As much as I loved the power and aggressiveness of some of the poses, those traits lend themselves more to… the Dark Side. Rey is no passive wallflower, but she also doesn’t go out looking for conflict. You could say she was born into it. Where the followers of the Dark Side are only concerned with - and likely aware of - the destructive and corporeal powers, Yoda eloquently gives us a more nuanced view of this energy that connects all things.

Star Wars is the first movie I saw in the theater*. My parents took us to the local drive-in on a warm night in, I’m pretty sure, 1978. There were a lot of empty spots (a weeknight?), so we set up camp on a blanket between cars, grabbing a tinny speaker from each side to create makeshift stereo. I was 7. The movie started and, for 2 hours, those worlds and that conflict were the only things that existed. Only a kid can get so lost in a movie that it becomes more real than the real world.

So, why Rey instead of Luke or Han or Leia? Good question.

I think I wanted to draw a character on the brink of becoming a hero, still fresh and fairly innocent.

Before the damage and heartbreak, cynicism and self-knowledge etch lines on their faces. Before loss and sacrifice take their toll. When standing against the bad guys and swinging a lightsaber still seem like all that’s needed to be a hero.

That brief moment in time where everything is still potential and optimism.

*Actually, there may have been another, but it was such an insignificant experience that I’ve deleted it from my memory. And this is a better story.

If I could peer beneath this placid surface.If I could interpret these coy and elusive patterns.If these ancient whispers would ring clear.

What wondrous knowledge would they gift to me? What power with which to shake and shape this stone and wood, water and sky?

What would I sacrifice to conquer this venerable elusiveness?

I’ve never been particularly good at telling the future.

Part of the trouble is that I don’t necessarily buy into the concept of time in the first place. That’s neither here nor there. It does tend to play havoc with my long-term planning, though.

What is germane to this pondering of predictions is the fact that I’m pretty much the hooded guy up there. Except I look goofy in a hood.

I’m the guy squinting into the crystal ball, trying to figure out what destiny or chance have in store, swatting at the mists to catch a glimpse of the secrets of a coy universe.

The only constant rule I’ve been able to suss out so far is as follows: If I can imagine a future series of events, those events will never happen. Never ever.

I don’t think I’m the only person with this problem. Just look at the sheer number of mythological, literary, and even historical attempts to peer through time, or to scan the thoughts and conversations of others. Think of all the devices you’ve heard of, or even fiddled with, that promised glimpses of things beyond the talent of your physical eyes.

J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings had the Palantir, the seven seeing stones, which can transmit thoughts and visions over great distances. The Mirror of Galadriel offers us (often terrible) visions of the past, present, and potential future.

Harry Potter dabbled with the Pensive to review the memories of friends and enemies alike. The Mirror of Erised shows the most beautiful lie, the deepest, most heartfelt desire of anyone who peers into its smooth surface. As if that weren’t enough, there’s talk of a two-way mirror for communication, scrying mirrors to glimpse the future, and an entire branch of magic to divine events yet to occur.

Speaking of magic mirrors, the Queen in the tale of Snow White discovers that knowing the whole, entire truth of things might not be so good for one’s self confidence.

The ancient Greeks consulted with the sybil at Delphi. Ask Laius, father of a certain Oedipus, what happens when you take action based on prophecies. Heck, ask Oedipus who tried to wiggle out of his own foretold future.

How many of us consult tarot cards and scry with crystal balls? Listen for voices transmitting throughOuija boards? Scroll down rendered pages of Google in search of enlightenment? Read the horoscope in the daily paper? Snap open take-out cookies yearning for happy news?

Invariably, it’s the fickle unreliability of these devices and prognostications that leads hero and villain, royal and commoner astray.

How often, though, does that unreliability lay on the shoulders and in the gaze of the viewer? How often do we see what we choose to see, rather than what is actually shown to us.

It would be wrong to say that I grew up without heroes. There were certainly people I admired and emulated.

I never had idols, though. Never hung the poster of any pop stars or actors or even characters on the wall. When you realize from a young age that everyone is fallible, it becomes impossible to worship them unreservedly.

Don't feel bad for me. For one thing, I never had to go through the system shock so many people seem to have when they realize their heroes have feet of clay. More importantly, flaws make the hero. Not only are perfect heroes boring, but they aren't really heroes at all.

Bruce Wayne needs to be split down the middle, a mere man always precariously balancing rage and abandonment between justice and revenge. Luke needs to be be on the cusp of letting his fear and anger thrust him over to the dark side. Jean Grey needs to be the brittle human shell holding back the all-consuming fires of the cosmos.

Heroism isn't in the deeds, but in the choices. Fallibility makes heroism possible.

Like last year's Paper Creatures exhibition, Paper Heroes is curated by Ilan Garibi and Limor Margolis and hosted by the Old Jaffa Museum in Old Jaffa, Tel Aviv. Paper cutting, origami, curling, paper sculpture and many more techniques have been employed by an international group of artists, scattered across 3 continents, to depict or comment on their heroes or the idea of heroism.

I've got a couple pieces in the exhibition that run to the colorful, vibrant side of my art. There's even brand new work that speaks to my ideas of heroism on a couple of different levels, from the very tiny and personal to the massively galactic, from a long time ago to the immediate now.

For all things, there is a time and a place. This is especially true for fungus.

Scattered amongst the fallen leaves covering the floor of a dank forest. Protruding in shelves ascending the side of a silver birch. Shaking hands with algae in order to live in harmony on the shady side of a rock. These are lovely, appropriate homes for fungal life.

Clinging to the wall behind a sofa, burrowing into the thin wood in the dark recesses of a closet, and spreading in blotchy patterns across the surface of a creative endeavor are not. What these six situations have in common is, of course, that they are all places where I have discovered fungi (and its peacenik cousin, lichen).

Like all lifeforms, the much-maligned fungi also deserves a chance at happiness, a chance to find a home. A chance at paradise.

Arts Rush Gallery in Daikanyama, Tokyo, has gathered together seven enchanting artists to try their hand at creating this utopia for the mushrooms, yeasts, molds, and their eukaryotic friends. I'm contributing a number of paper and wood pieces that I'm quite proud of. I also can't wait to see what the other artists are bringing, especially since many of them are hanga woodcut artists. I's gonna be exciting!

*sadly, I'll need to see it on the 'net, as it doesn't look like I'll have the chance to zip up to Tokyo next month...

I can’t even begin to explain how disappointed I am. The Cut Paper Art Calendar has been one of the pillars of my year since 2007. The first couple of years, I self-published the calendar through Lulu. That was weird. In 2012 we made the jump to Kickstarter and never looked back.

Coming into this year, I knew timing was going to be tough. But I was hopeful I could put aside enough time to make the Year of the Dog art and lay out the calendar. Then stuff happened.

Big Stuff.

My daughter was born (technically last summer, but it still counts). I’m making art when she’s sleeping. We moved from Fukuoka to Osaka. Then we moved again. Also to Osaka (area) - this time to a place with closets.

I was invited to join an exhibition in Israel called Paper Heroes that opens the end of this month (or the beginning of next). New art was made.

Right now, I’m hip deep in a secret project that is really exciting, but if I tell anyone about it I get turned to stone. It’s in the contract.

So, that’s a basic rundown of the major stuff that’s been happening. In between those things there have been commissions, local exhibitions, etc. All-in-all its been an amazing, hectic, often sleep-depriving year that I wouldn’t trade for anything.

The only downside is that I just couldn’t shoehorn the calendar in with all of the other craziness.

The Plan

Back in 2007, when I printed the first calendar, the goal was to finish all twelve of the zodiac animal artworks. I still want to do that. After all, there’s only two left: the dog and the boar.

The next calendar will (and I reserve the right to change my mind about any of this at any time) be the full cycle, from beginning to end, from Rat to Boar.

After that, I’m not sure what will happen. There’s a ton of non-calendar projects I would love to explore from art books to crazy laser-cutting projects. It’s going to take some time and some research and some imagination.

In the Meantime

In the meantime, I want to thank everyone who backed my Kickstarters, bought a calendar, or wrote to express their love for the art or give me much-needed advice. I’ve met a ton of amazing people through this project over the past decade, and your support has been heartwarming. Some of my favorite new artworks were commissions for fans who found me through the calendar.

Huddled and slinking through the snow, this fur grants little defense against the winter wind.

Each timidly placed step sinks deep.

There is nothing beyond this screen of blinding white. Nothing but this burden carried.

Where does art come from? Does it spontaneously generate in the mind of the artist, independent of the outside world? Is it programmed into the artist’s brain in art school? Do alien’s or angels beam it down into our neurons, where it is translated into images of beauty or desperation?

For my money, Art Making comes from the marriage of inspiration, experience, and technique. Its a throuple.

Technique

Technique is nothing more than study, research and lots of practice. It’s not sexy. It can be fun. It’s learning the medium and the tools, from the basics of drawing up to the very specifics of how the medium is made and how it reacts to substrates and other media. In my case, learning about the different papers and glues is the biggest part. Especially how the paper absorbs the adhesive. Knives, thankfully, are pretty straightforward.

Experience

Experience isn’t just about art, although that’s a big part. Sure, education is important. Exposure to contemporary art all the way back to ancient cave paintings can and do inform the work. But personal experience is as, or more, important. Getting out of the studio, seeing and talking to wonderful and strange people (this world is full of both types…), learning about different cultures. Reading, music, conversation.

Inspiration

Which leads us to that most nebulous of concepts, Inspiration. There’s a lot of crossover and cross-pollination with experience here. Everything that enters your mind, everything that fires your imagination or makes you stop and think for a moment can serve as inspiration. How is this different from experience? Experience is the absorption of stimuli. Inspiration is the process that happens in your mind, heart, and soul to turn that stimuli into something new.

The inspiration for The Filthy Sadness of the Fox seems to be a direct line from 中原中也 (Nakahara Chūya)’s poem 汚れつちまつた悲しみに… UPON THE SADNESS ALL SMEARED UP..

A lush epiphany shall bloom.

I don’t know if the Earth speaks to us.

Or, if it ever did, whether we’re still on speaking terms these days. For that matter, it’s not clear to me if the sky has much to say. Or if the universe sings us to sleep. If the sun has wisdom to impart. Whether the trees whisper ancient knowledge. If the energy that makes up this planet and all organic and inorganic life crawling over its surface is shouting dire warnings in our ears.

I’d like to think that these things are true.

Its an interesting peculiarity of our species: to gift human traits and personalities to inhuman and inanimate things.

My father’s first horse was named Rusty. She was usually calm, in control, steady, and fairly friendly. Except she hated my Mom. And, it turns out, all women. She would nip at my Mom’s hand. And if she saw my parent’s together, she would be horrible afterwards. To the point that we eventually had to sell her when, one day, she decided to stop, drop and roll on top of a barbed wire fence while my Dad was riding her - ostensibly because, an hour earlier, my mother had popped back to tell Dad he had a phone call.

Was she jealous? Spiteful? Envious? Protective or possessive of my father? That’s certainly how it seemed and how we told the stories about her. But can a horse really get jealous?

A friend recently told me about a woman (a professor, I think) who theorized that the English language doesn’t have the ability to accurately convey many of women’s thoughts, emotions, and experience. So, she went and created her own language (I wish I had more information on this, links or something, if any of you do, please forward them to me. Language and its strengths and shortcomings are a fascinating subject). Let’s assume she’s correct.

If 50% of our species are inaccurately represented by our common language, how can we even begin to hope to understand anything that isn’t actually human?

It’s one of the reasons I get frustrated (and a little frightened) whenever anyone, of any religion, professes to understand the intention or will of (a) God or divine being. I’m not saying that God doesn’t exist. I’m not saying It’s not trying to communicate with us.

But on the one hand we have an entity that willed or cobbled or fuzzled the entirety of creation into existence. That begat life. That is able to conceive of ideas and concepts on the scale of the universe. Maybe multiple universes. On the other, we have us. Most of us can’t even plan dinner a day ahead.

People often explain the relationship by comparing God:human to human:ant. It’s not equivalent. We didn’t create ants. Heck, they probably pre-date us. Everything we know about ants, we know through observation. And generally, we get a lot wrong that way. If the distance between ants and humans is from NY to LA, then the distance between us and Divinity is from NY to MACS0647-JD. That’s the furthest known galaxy, a mere 13.3 billion light years away.

The point being that the entirety of the universe could be screaming at us night and day, and we wouldn’t even recognize that there was language happening. Nature and the planet might be whispering the secrets of ultimate power and happiness in our ears, and all the while we’re trying to swat away a mosquito.

Ah, but I wouldn’t be living up to my reputation as an optimist if there wasn’t a caveat.

Humans can evolve. Not just genetically, but personally, in knowledge and openness. In understanding and compassion and empathy. Then, maybe we’ll find something interesting to listen to.

The Cultivation of Enlightenment open-edition print wafts into the shop for the first time today.

It is a hurricane.

A million ideas from a thousand sources hurtle through your mind, distill, congeal, evolve.

Here. Here is something new.

The phrase “Happy Accident” is entirely overused in the art world. In any case, it was when I was in art school. Of course, now that I look back, a lot of those utterances might have been ironic. Doesn’t matter, though. Still overused.

The only type of art where the phrase really applies is watercolor. At least at my skill level. Anytime the paint rearranged itself pleasantly, it was an accident. I’ve heard rumors of artists who can foresee and predict the flow of soppy pigment, but I never had that superpower. (Actually, my friend Johanna van der Sterre is amazing with watercolors, able to work with large blocks of colors in ways I’ve never seen before. Check her work out. It’s totally worth it, and totally on purpose).

Cut paper doesn’t allow for Happy Accidents.

Neither, I suppose do sculpture, wood carving, or most other arts performed at a professional level.

Serendipity, though. That’s another story.

Serendipity graces us and our work when experience gets a big hug from chance and happenstance, while preparation keeps a watchful eye.

You might be wondering what the difference is. Allow me to Illuminate.

An accident lacks intention and attention. Accidents can happen to anyone at any time. Winning the lottery is an accident. Being struck by lightning. Strolling absentmindedly along a sidewalk when the rope lifting the grand piano to the fifth floor snaps.

Serendipity is the knack for riding the flow of chance to a happy outcome. Its a talent, an ability, an aptitude.

There’s a great quote I’m having trouble finding in a Terry Pratchett novel which I can’t name at the moment, about the character Cohen the Barbarian and how very good he is at not dying in a wide variety of perilous situations. Mostly by not being where the pointy end of weapons are at any given moment. Not by dodging or avoiding them, which is a fool’s gamble. By simply being elsewhere.

Luck and fate are nothing more than a lifetime of experience internalized and etched so deeply into the marrow of your bones that they become a nearly supernatural skill. Abruptly stopping and bending down to pick up a penny (heads-up!), and narrowly being missed by the aforementioned piano is serendipity. Other people might think the dice rolled especially well for you. But you’ve been slowly loading those dice for years.

That is the true happy accident.

There are times when I think deeply about which papers to use, which section of the paper would serve best, how to turn it. Which piece of wood with which grain accentuates the paper best to communicate the concept or tell the story. There are also times when I don’t have to think about it, and everything simply lines up right.

Take, for example, our owl-faced friend here. He was originally more human looking. He evolved, without an overabundance of deep contemplation, to fit the theme. And that bubbly purple paper that makes him look a bit like a gummy bear? Much less flat than my original choice. Which for some reason just didn’t feel right. And that paper, in turn, inspired me to go back and re-draw the shape of the body to be rounder, and more Jell-o-ish. Gelatinous. All of which, somehow, just works.

At least I think so.

Illumination Comes In On the Breeze wafts into the shop for the first time today.

Copper fur stirs slightly in the breeze as the padding footfall pauses, considers. The air is thick with mystery, with cunning, with sharp schemes. A dark eye glints, quick and beguiling.

There is sly knowledge here.

I’ve only seen a fox in the wild one time.

It was back on the farm where I grew up. There was no shortage of animals - our land backed up onto a large state park running wild (literally) with all of the traditional critters and creatures indigenous to the Northeastern Unites States.

And some that were not.

The story goes that, back before the area was tamed and populated, there was guy, a hermit, a wild, lone recluse living deep in the woods. He collected animals from throughout the US, and lived with them in his own private, hidden zoo. When he died, the animals waited patiently for their feed, which never came. So they broke free to feed themselves. Which would explain the anomalous and not-entirely-pleasant presence of coyote.

Back to the fox.

It was the briefest of glimpses; a moment and it was gone. But in that moment, as it was running through the tall grass, it stopped and looked directly at me, making eye contact. And I totally understood all the talk about cleverness.

What surprised me even more was the calmness that radiated off of the beast. Deer give off an air of skittish panic. Bear of sluggish power. The bobcat that loped through had an ugly nastiness about it (it might have been just one bad bobcat, I don’t want to stereotype). The fox was so relaxed, so self-possessed that it might have been an aristocrat on its morning constitutional, surveying its lands.

Foxes have long been one of my favorite animals to use as metaphor or symbol. Long before that one encounter, I’d been enthralled by Aesop’s stories, by myths and legends and fairy tales. Whether hero or villain, savior or thief, that sly intelligence was always at the core of the fox’s personality.

I wonder if my admiration might stem from identifying with the fox, or perhaps a touch of jealousy. Despite its small size (until high school, I was always one of the smallest in my grade) the fox always seemed to be in control. Even the foxes who came to unfortunate ends did so through their own actions and arrogance. Cleverness and self-assured grace seem like very fine alternatives to brawn.

Vixen / Inari ambles back into the shop today. Keep an eye on the henhouse.

Fragile and impermanent, having come untethered from its branch, the cherry blossom glides softly on the wind.

The dragon's roar may be muffled by the whisper of a blossom touching earth.

I have a number of artist friends and acquaintances who dread the elusive commission, even as they hunt for them like an alien Predator hunts for oversized Austrian commandos in a steamy rainforest. Almost everyone I know, from the greenest neophyte to the most grizzled veteran has a horror story about The Commission That Devoured My Life.

I’m probably jinxing myself here, but I don’t.

It might be because cut paper art, especially my style of it, is so esoteric that only a serious fan would commission it in the first place. Or perhaps because I didn’t begin considering commissions until later in my career, at which point I had a pretty good idea of the value of my work. My experience as an illustrator, writing my own contracts and negotiating (often poorly) has certainly helped - it gave me the ability to walk away from a situation that I strongly suspect is going to be a bad fit. Also, the skill of not taking things personally when the other party walks away.

I look at commissions as a partnership, a collaboration. The client supplies the inspiration. the germ of an idea. Then somehow that little seed finds purchase in my mind, and blooms.

The greatest gift an artist can get is the opportunity to look at some small corner of the world in a new way, to see the familiar from a new and revelatory point of view. The best commissions grant this chance.

Generally, commissioned artwork can take a few different forms.

The first is the do your own thing. The client may toss out a couple ideas, a favorite color, some past artwork of mine that they enjoyed. Sometimes they tell a story, sharing some important, or happily mundane, details of their lives. And these random bits carouse and dance around with my own style and ideas, creating an image I would have never made on my own.

Others come with very clear ideas. They have a concept buzzing around in their minds. Specific imagery or elements. My job is to marry these ideas to my own way of working, my style of drawing and cutting. Together, we often create a piece that’s greater than either of us imagined it could have been.

Sakura Blossom Season is of the 2nd type.

I’ll admit that it took a little while, and a pile of bad drawings, before we had a layout that worked. As with most challenges though, the more difficult the journey, the more we appreciate the reward. I love the way this piece combines the ferocity of the dragon with the soft impermanence of the cherry blossoms. It captures something that is utterly true to myself, but which might never have been seen without prompting.

Sakura Blossom Season drifts gently back into the shop today. Only a few more to go until the shop is full. One of the next pieces is, coincidentally, a commission too.

In the heat. Of the flame. A soul was forged. Possessed of the strength and permanence of a mountain, it burns in anticipation of the far-off day when its shattered self will be completed.

The true beauty of the diptych - or triptych, quadriptych, pentaptych … all polyptychs*, really - is the depth of transformation you can achieve in the work.

Each panel stands apart, like a lone wolf on a jutting mountain peak, howling cliches at the full moon. There’s a self-contained concept, narrative, and/or emotion. The piece has an impact on the viewer based entirely on whatever is inside those limited borders.

Add a second panel (and a third, etc.), and suddenly the boundaries are shattered. There’s a second story, or perhaps a continuation of the first, if the art creates a narrative. For more conceptual or abstract pieces, the new portion might continue the emotional journey, or reinforce the ideas and metaphors presented.

But wait, there’s more!

There’s a re-contextualisation happening. Suddenly, the first image appears in a different light. It’s meaning is deepened. It’s concepts somewhat altered. The metaphors aren’t just strengthened, but also extended. Visually, lines and curves continue and develop, move and meander in new and unique ways. Abstract shapes become concrete. Colors brighten or fade. Ideas clarify or become more ambiguous. Or, paradoxically, both at the same time.

In a way, polyptychs aren’t so different from people. We know our friends and family and coworkers in specific roles. Our mother is Mom. Our husbands and wives are spouses, lovers, and confidantes. Peeking in on them as workers, lovers, etc. can be a revelation. At times shocking.

She Who Brings the Fire & He of the Flame prints smolder their way back into the shop today, re-forging their heated relationship.

Interested in knowing more about the individual artworks? Check out the original posts for She and He.

* I admit it. I just learned half of these words today. I had guessed “quintatych, sexaptych, and septaptych”. I was not correct. Oh well.

Strong With This One #wip.
Apparently, wood paper is a thing. I mean, of course paper made of wood isn’t new, but wood sliced so thin as to be paper seems to be. At least to me. It’s very handy for building faces, along with a pretty bronze-ish chiyogami for a shiny shadow
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#patrickgannon #art #artist #artwork #film #movies #faces #wood #chiyogami #paper #papercut #papercraft #papercutter #papercutting #papercutart #rey #detail #intricate

So many pieces, so many cuts. #wip for a new piece in the Paper Heroes show that just opened in Israel. It's nice to get a chance to work with bright colors again. It's been awhile
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#paperart #paper #papercut #papercraft #paperartist #washi #chiyogami #starwars #artist #creative #decorative #pop #popart #movies #hero #space #patrickgannon #oldjaffa #museum #artexhibition #artshow

"Paper Heroes" goes live tomorrow, October 5,2017 at the old Jaffa Museum in Tel Aviv, Israel.
Paper cutting, origami, curling, paper sculpture and many more techniques have been employed by an international group of 36 artists, scattered across 3 continents, to depict or comment on their heroes or the idea of heroism.
I've got a couple pieces in the exhibition that run to the colorful, vibrant side of my art. There's even brand new work that speaks to my ideas of heroism on a couple of different levels, from the very tiny and personal to the massively galactic, from a long time ago to the immediate now.
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#art #artshow #artexhibition #paper #paperart #origami #papercut #papercraft #patrickgannon #israel #oldjaffa #museum #heroes #creative

Ginza Gallery G2's Monochrome 12square exhibition lasts just one more day. One more chance to check out some astounding, mostly B&W artwork by a whole bunch of cool, talented creators. Myself included. In fact, you can actually see my work in these pics!
#patrickgannon

Monochrome 12square at Ginza Gallery G2. Open now until August 15th! Drop on by to Tokyo, Chuo-ku, Ginza 1-9-8 岡野ビル 1F and check out a huge variety of amazing work by a ton of super talented folk, including myself ( though my art isn't in this photo, so you don't have to hunt for it just yet...)
#art #artist #artwork #fineart #art🎨 #artshow #artexhibition #patrickgannon #paper #square #blackandwhite #august #ginza #galleryg2 #imagination #talent

monochrome12square is open at Ginza Gallery G2 in Ginza, Tokyo until August 15, 2017. A collection of amazing work from a wide variety of artists, all ties together by the small square format and the (mostly) black and white art. I hope you can stop on by!
#art #artwork #galleryg2 #ginzagalleryg2 #exhibition #artshow #artexhibition #blackandwhite #square #patrickgannon #groupshow #japan #tokyo #ginza